


not even close

by genee



Series: chicago [3]
Category: Actor RPF, Black Donnellys
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-29
Updated: 2009-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Maybe if he'd smoked up back at the hotel, a hot shower and good weed could go a long way, but he hadn't, and now he can't focus on anything but this, cold concrete floor and Tommy's hips in his hands, the clutch of his own throat, Tommy's fingers on his jaw.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	not even close

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meredevachon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meredevachon/gifts).



So Chris was wrong about Tommy being a pretty boy, but whatever, he can admit it. He was drunk when they met and thinking about Jensen, and Tommy had been blurry, indistinct. Here, though, under the gallery lights, Tommy's not blurry at all. He's hot as hell, and nervous, maybe, crisp in his white shirt and his dark jeans, younger than he was this morning, older somehow, too. Different, Chris thinks, this is Tommy the Artist, that's his signature right there, and there, and there, too.

Chris wonders where the .38 is tonight, presses his hand against the small of Tommy's back, checks the gallery out like he didn't bother to do earlier, the people, the art. He wonders if he would have done things differently if he'd known this was Tommy's showing, if he could have gotten here sooner, if he would have looked around a little before he dragged Tommy into some tiny backroom, ladders and wooden frames and canvases all around them, Tommy's pale thighs shaking and Chris on his knees, eyes closed, mouth open, hard dick jutting out of his jeans. He really doubts it.

He'd spent the whole day thinking about Tommy's fingers twisted in his hair and Tommy's dick in his mouth, thick and heavy, the stretch of it, the feel, and by the time he finally makes it to the gallery, Eliot still in his head and adrenaline burning high, another goddamn good day in front of the cameras (with Timothy fuckin' Hutton, no less) and there's just no way. Maybe if he'd smoked up back at the hotel, a hot shower and good weed could go a long way, but he hadn't, and now he can't focus on anything but this, cold concrete floor and Tommy's hips in his hands, the slide of foreskin under his tongue, the clutch of his own throat and Tommy's fingers on his jaw. Tommy's voice all raspy, low, saying, "Fuck, that's good, c'mon, open up for me, open, fuck, gonna make it so good for you," like he knows, like he knows how much Chris needs this, like maybe he needs it, too.

Tommy's dick swells, pulses, and Chris hears a muffled gasp before Tommy thrusts deep, hot spurt in the back of his throat, pulling back just enough to fill Chris's mouth with the last of it, sharp taste and the soft needy whine Chris wishes wasn't him, fat head of Tommy's dick popping out when he reaches for his own. He doesn't even get his hand wrapped around, thumb just grazing the underside before he's shooting into his palm, mouth open against the inside of Tommy's thigh, drag of Tommy's callused fingers on the back of his neck. Tommy pulls him into a kiss then, softer than Chris expected, hot and fierce and this kid really needs to stop surprising him like this. "Fuck," Chris breathes, and Tommy's lips quirk against his. "Fuck."

Tommy kisses him until the water runs warm in the tiny paint-stained sink, shifts around enough for Chris to squeeze in beside him. They can't have been back here fifteen minutes, twenty at the most. It seems like longer; it seems like he's known Tommy longer, too. Tommy cracks his neck, smothers a yawn behind his hand, says, "Don't take this wrong way, but, shit. You're better than a bar fight," and Chris laughs, saying _right back ya_ just as Tommy says, "Prettier, too."

"Oh, hell no," Chris says, and if he's still laughing as they wander back through the gallery, it's only because he ain't no pretty boy, either.

He's no expert, but he thinks it's a decent showing, a bunch of different artists, different styles, enough people milling around that he's not really worried about being noticed. No one's looking for him here, for one thing. He watches older guys in black-framed glasses take in the damp curls at the back of Tommy's neck, pretty girls brushing up against him, wine glasses in their hands. He watches Tommy smile and make small talk and Chris is good at this part, he smiles and makes small talk, too. Every so often Tommy touches his arm, his shoulder, slides a finger across Chris's wrist, bare skin beneath the bracelets he's still wearing there.

He can't stop thinking about what Tommy said, though, what it'd be like to throw down in some dive bar with Tommy at his side, eyes narrowed, fists flying, blood-slick and sweaty and Chris can almost taste the blood in his mouth now, his dick heavy again, thick in jeans. When Tommy leans close, says, "Let's get the fuck out of here," Chris is more than ready, winking at the coat-check girl while they wait by the windows, his reflection in the glass next to Tommy's, listening to the wind.

"You're not carryin' tonight," Chris says once they're outside, and Tommy tenses right up. "I, fuck," Chris says, "It doesn't--"

"I hate guns," Tommy says, and it's freezing now but his voice is hot, his skin flushed. And then, "So, you wanna find a bar fight first, or you just wanna fuck? Or both? I could do both," and he grins that twisty grin, and Chris grins, too. "I've been thinking about fucking you since this morning."

Tommy's quiet in the cab, gives the driver his address and leans back, legs splayed, thigh pressed against Chris's. Chris can see the outline of his dick under his jeans, wants to feel it, cover it with his palm, slide his fingers inside, cold fingers on hot skin. He would, if it were Jensen sitting beside him, and Jensen would moan and shift his coat to cover, narrow his eyes at Chris like he didn't want Chris to blow him right there, right where the driver could see.

Chris cups his palm over his own dick instead, soft rub of denim, top button undone. He lets his head drop back against the seat, feels Tommy move beside him, voice low in his ear, "You're so fuckin' hot, Jesus, I'd blow you right here if we weren't so close." Chris glances at the rearview, and Tommy murmurs, "Don't think about him. Think about me. My dick in your ass, my mouth on you, you like that? You want me to fuck you first?" Chris bites his lip, cups his balls; the cab slows to a stop. Tommy pays the driver, cash from his coat pocket and a look so dark Chris almost doesn't see it in the night. Gun or no gun, the kid's got _juice_ , fuck.

Chris presses him up against the back of the elevator, Tommy's muscles flexing under his hands, his thighs, Tommy's mouth on his sweet and coppery. Tommy's apartment looks different at night, streetlight glinting off the windows, casting stripes and shadows on the walls. Tommy finds a bottle somewhere, two glasses on the counter and liquid heat pooled in Chris's belly, clothes scattered on the floor. He can see Tommy's jeans from this angle, his own boots, the cuff of his shirt, his arm stretched across the bed, the feel of Tommy's fingers sliding out and his dick pressing in, hard and fat, both of them moaning low.

"Sorry, sorry," Tommy says, but he doesn't stop and Chris doesn't want him to, wants this, wants to feel it, the thick stretch of Tommy's dick like he's been thinking about since he opened his eyes this morning and saw Tommy's pale skin, his freckles, the soft pout of his mouth. Chris twists on his side, his dick sliding against his belly, slick trail on his skin and Tommy sweaty above him, swearing. "Fuck, you're so fuckin' hot."

"C'mon," Chris breathes, and Tommy leans in and kisses him, veins in his arms popping out against his muscles, abs sliding over Chris's dick. Chris tenses, both of them breathing heavy, whiskey and need and Tommy's eyes like melting steel, Tommy's dick fucking in and out, in and out, hips almost losing their rhythm. "C'mon, harder, fuck."

Tommy bites Chris's lip and pulls out with a groan, dick jutting out dark and shiny as he bends his head, slides down until he's pressing his mouth to Chris's open hole, sucking softly, slick tongue slipping in, hot pressure so good Chris is shaking with it. He wants to tug Tommy up, make him stop, soft wet mouth making him crazy; he wants to twist his fingers in Tommy's hair and hold him right where he is, because Chris is gonna come like this, this kid's mouth on him, tongue licking around his hole, filthy and so fucking sweet.

He doesn't know what he wants but it doesn't matter, slick fingers knuckling in and Tommy licking up the groove of his hip, biting at his belly, his chest. When he gets to Chris's mouth Chris bites back, Tommy's dick pushing in and Tommy's mouth on his, dirty boy buried balls deep and Chris going off in hot spurts between them. Dark haze of so fuckin' good, Tommy pumping into him still, wrecked and sweaty and coming hard, staying right where he is.

"This what you expected?" Tommy asks later, whiskey by the nightstand, water on the windowsill, and Chris has no idea how to answer that, Tommy's hand on Chris's bicep, thick muscle, redgold skin.

He thinks about the way Tommy looked in the cab tonight, the sound of his voice in the gallery, all the ways he's nothing like what Chris thought he'd be, a hot trick in some shitty bar, one night in Chicago, something to sing about the next time he picked up his guitar.

"It's not," Chris says, finally, and Tommy settles back against the pillows, lips brushing against Chris's shoulder, feet tangled up in the sheets. "It's not even fuckin' close."  


 

 

\-- End --


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